Chapter 7 - The Confrontation with Gerald Moss
By Friday afternoon, word of the incident at The Salt Line had quietly rippled through the high-end dining districts of Boston.
Gerald Moss sat in his glass-walled manager’s office on the second floor of the restaurant, sweating through his silk shirt. The restaurant was closed for "private maintenance," but Moss hadn't slept in three days. Every sound from the alley, every passing engine on the street made him jump out of his leather chair like a frightened rabbit.
He was currently packing a leather duffel bag with five thousand dollars in cash from the safe, a passport, and two expensive watches.
"Crazy mobsters..." Moss muttered under his breath, his hands shaking as he zipped the bag. "I’m getting on a flight to Miami tonight. Let them fight their own wars..."
The glass door of his office didn't open—it shattered.
A heavy black combat boot smashed through the center panel, sending shards of safety glass raining onto the carpet.
Viktor stepped through the broken frame, flanked by two Colazo guards in dark coats. Without saying a word, Viktor reached across the desk, grabbed Moss by his silk tie, and yanked him across the wood, dragging him out into the main dining room.
"Hey! Let me go! I have rights!" Moss screamed, writhing in Viktor’s grip. "I called the police!"
"The police don't patrol Pier 4, Mr. Moss," Viktor said coldly, dumping him onto a plush velvet chair near the window table—the very table where Mia Colazo had been sitting four days ago.
Standing by the window, looking out over the grey harbor waters, was Rafe Colazo.
He was dressed in a pristine charcoal suit, holding a silver fountain pen and a single sheet of paper. Beside him stood Mia, looking remarkably calm, wearing a simple beige trench coat.
Moss scrambled back into the velvet chair, his face slick with sweat. "Mr. Colazo! Please! I told your men everything! I didn't know the server was a hitman! I swear!"
"I know you didn't know," Rafe said smoothly, turning around to face him. "You were simply stupid, arrogant, and cruel. You treated an exhausted woman like garbage because you knew she had nowhere else to go."
Moss swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically. "Mave? She... she was just an employee!"
"She was a mother working to keep her son alive," Mia spoke up, her voice sharp as an icicle. "She told you there was a dangerous man in your room, and you threatened to fire her."
Rafe stepped forward, setting the single sheet of paper onto the small dining table in front of Moss. He placed the silver fountain pen beside it.
"What... what is this?" Moss stammered.
"This," Rafe explained calmly, "is a legal transfer of ownership for The Salt Line. You are surrendering your forty percent management stake in this establishment to the Donovan Family Educational and Medical Trust."
Moss’s mouth dropped open. "What?! This restaurant is worth three million dollars! You can't just take my business!"
Rafe leaned down, resting both hands flat on the table, bringing his scarred jaw inches from Moss’s pale face.
"I am not taking your business, Gerald," Rafe whispered, his tone so low it vibrated through the manager's chest. "I am allowing you to walk out of this city on two functional legs in exchange for a piece of paper. If you prefer to keep your equity, my men can take you down to the basement at Pier 4 and we can discuss the interest rate on your health."
Moss looked at Rafe’s icy grey eyes. He looked at Viktor standing behind him with his arms crossed over a chest the size of a refrigerator.
His shaking fingers reached out and grabbed the silver fountain pen.
"Where... where do I sign?" Moss wheezed, tears of humiliation burning his eyes.
"At the bottom," Mia said, watching him closely. "And then you have fifteen minutes to gather your personal things and get out of Boston. If my brother sees your face near the waterfront again, he won't bring a pen."
Five minutes later, Gerald Moss scurried out the front doors of The Salt Line into the cold afternoon wind, carrying a single cardboard box, his high-end career in Boston crushed forever.
Mia looked at the signed transfer document on the table, then up at her brother. "What are you going to do with a seafood restaurant, Rafe?"
May you like
Rafe picked up the paper, folding it carefully into his coat pocket. A rare, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips.
"I’m not running it," Rafe said. "Mave Donovan is the new owner."
